


Stray Dogs

by forthegreatergood



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bad Decisions, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Pining, Poor Life Choices, Team Dynamics, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-20 05:43:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17616602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forthegreatergood/pseuds/forthegreatergood
Summary: Things would be easier, if Daredevil and his pair of shadows could find a hobby that doesn't involve getting in Frank's way or being a thorn in Frank's side.  Things would be easier, if Murdock could take care of his own.  Things would be easier, if Frank could dig the three of them back out from under his skin.There aren’t words for it, what Frank wants.  Murdock thinks if he just keeps Page and Nelson at arm’s length, if he doesn’t let himself have friends, then they won’t get hurt.  Something taught him early and hard that bad things happen to the people who love him; if he can manage how close they get, they’ll be safer.  Frank knows better--they aren’t getting out of this alive any more than he and Red are.  They might go out quicker, might last a little longer; at the end of the day, they’re not the sort of people who make it.  But if it could just not happen tonight, if Frank could close his eyes this once and know it wouldn’t happen while he slept, that would be a mercy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All characters property of Marvel.
> 
> Not beta-read. Please post any noticed errors in the comments, and they'll get fixed.

The gunshots are too sporadic, the slugs’ impact too scattered, for the shooter to have a bead on them. It’s a comfort of sorts, and at this point Frank will take it, because Nelson’s already heading for the stairwell. It leads outside, and Frank can only imagine what the hell Nelson thinks he’s going to do once he’s there--get the license plate number on a getaway car? Flag down a cruiser? 

Frank tackles him just short of the door, pins him to the floor with a forearm across Nelson’s chest and a hand over his mouth, and tries not to be as surprised as he is when Nelson actually fights him on it. If they’ve gotten very lucky, the shooter is calling it in as a successful hit. It’s not a bad assumption--the room they barely made it out of is so much kindling and perforated furniture, broken glass and pillow stuffing covering the floor like fresh-fallen snow. Frank’s made a living off that sort of luck, and he’s not about to let Nelson break his streak.

Nelson twists under him, shoving ineffectually at his arm and prying at his wrist, and Frank pushes him down harder, putting some muscle into it instead of letting his weight do all the work. Nelson’s face tightens at that, anger and shock and frustration, and Frank can see it in those glass-blue eyes, the specific moment when Nelson realizes that he’s not going anywhere until Frank lets him up. Nelson’s throat bobs, and Frank’s sure he’d already be trying to talk his way out of it if Frank didn’t have his jaw clamped down hard. 

It makes some junkyard-dog part of Frank’s brain come up on point, the dumb and ugly part of him that doesn’t care they’re getting shot at in some shithole because he’s finally found a way to shut Nelson’s smart mouth and keep him where he wants him. It helps that he’s pretty sure the shooter’s done, that the immediate crisis is over. It doesn’t help that he knows this about himself now. This is gonna come back to bite him in the ass later, probably at the worst possible time.

He could blame it on the way Nelson never knows when to stop talking, stop pushing, stop asking questions where the answer might catch him a bullet. He could blame it on the way Nelson’s always just a few inches farther away than Frank thinks he is, close enough that grabbing him seems like it should work but never does. He could tell himself it’s a momentary thing slopping over from all the times he was too slow to keep Nelson locked down, too slow to come up with a counterargument to Nelson’s lawyer bullshit. It’s a cop-out; Frank’s wanted to do this since Nelson informed him that Frank was the latest shitbag Nelson & Murdock was defending with a big fuck-you grin on his face.

How long did it take him to catch on to that idiotic cheerfulness being nothing more than a repackaged front-toward-enemy combination of nerves, balls, and desperation? Too long, though in his defense, it’s not just him that missed it--he’s pretty sure Nelson’s got everyone but Page and Murdock snowed, too. Also in his defense, he wasn’t entirely wrong when he’d written Nelson off as an idiot. Nelson’s damn near knee-jerk response to something scaring the shit out of him is to find a way to come at it head-on, usually without much of a plan and even less of an exit strategy.

Frank’s pretty sure the combination of Nelson and Page are a big part of why Red’s the way he is. They’ve barely got the survival instinct of a lemming between them, and trying to corral one means giving the other one a clear shot at the door. Nelson talks a good game about backing down, then turns around and starts the fight back up; Page wouldn’t blink in the face of a bomb going off, and it just about takes a crowbar to pry her off of something. It drives Frank up a wall, and he doesn’t even have the supercharged senses Murdock’s got--doesn’t have to listen to Nelson run through a fucking legal argument for why sticking a knife in him would be a bad idea, doesn’t have to listen to Page plan another run at a guy that puts more thought into ordering his lunch than killing a man. 

Frank hadn’t known whether or not to buy into Murdock’s lone-wolf act, the way he gave out like the last thing he wanted was Nelson and Page running after him trying to keep him out of jail, in one piece, out of the ground. He’d sympathized, was the thing; Nelson’s a pain in the ass on a good day, and trying to fight the good fight with Page watching’s enough to make anybody question their methods. Frank had gotten a little taste of both himself and certainly hadn’t been in any kind of hurry for more. But then it turned out there was the Murdock that waxed poetic about morality and murder and tried to save Frank’s soul, and then there was the Murdock that showed his teeth when anybody so much as twitched in Nelson or Page’s general direction.

Trouble is, Frank sympathizes with that, too.

There hasn’t been a shot in thirty seconds. They should get moving, in a tactically considered way--if the triggerman’s got a lick of sense, he’s either coming to check for corpses or sending someone to do it while he keeps eyes on the exits. Frank has a vision of Nelson popping up like a jack in the box and bolting off the second he lets go, still hellbent on whatever stupidity he had in mind before Frank took him down. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time. 

It’s easier when it’s Frank and Page following the same leads and crossing paths; she’s at least willing to trust Frank to take point. Nelson’s too used to Murdock’s bullshit disappearing act, too used to getting between Page and the sort of guy who’d go for the woman first. It’s like talking to a brick wall, trying to get Nelson to understand that Frank knows his business and isn’t in the habit of leaving people behind, however much he might want to.

Frank focuses, looks down, and finds Nelson staring up at him like Frank’s grown fangs. He doesn’t like it, doesn’t like being reminded that he’s one of the things that scares the shit out of Nelson, but he doesn’t have to like it, so long as he can make it work.

He lowers himself so his mouth is right next to Nelson’s ear and says, “You run, I swear to god I’ll kneecap you and dump you on Page’s doorstep. You understand me?”

He can feel Nelson go rigid under him, feel the muscles in his neck and jaw working under Frank’s hand. Then Nelson goes limp, and Frank lets up and pushes off, ready in case it’s a feint. Threatening to drag one of the other three into something’s a coin toss--it’s about the only way Frank’s found to force a lick of compliance out of any of them, but just about as often it’s a one-way ticket to a second round, water thrown on a grease fire.

“Asshole,” Nelson mutters, his voice flattened out in defeat, and Frank would just as soon not know what that sounds like.

“Yeah, asshole of the year here, trying to keep you from rabbiting straight into the clean-up crew,” he growls. 

When Frank lets Nelson all the way up, he scrambles back and away, bouncing clumsily off the wall in his haste to put distance between himself and Frank. He’s pissed, and he’s spooked, and if it was anyone else, Frank would be ready for him to try running just to show Frank he’s not in charge. Nelson’s ceded that for now, though, unwilling to risk Frank carrying through on his threat. He settles for dusting himself off, brushing splinters and feathers off his suit and straightening his tie. It’s a nervous tic, like a cat grooming itself after losing a fight, something Nelson does when he’s getting ready to bluff like his life depends on it.

Frank listens for doors slamming, listens for men running, listens for sirens. He’s got a mag and a half left. He glances at Nelson, tries not to want to grab him by the hair and shake that look off his face. Frank’s not the enemy right now.

“You keep behind me,” Frank says, low and cool. “You run when I say run, you stay when I say stay, and you keep your goddamned mouth shut.”

This much artillery, they’re probably after Frank. That won’t stop them from tying up any loose ends if Nelson gives them enough to guess his identity, starts trying to misdirect or lie about the cops being on their way. Nelson glares at him and pushes his hair out of his face, then finally nods.

“Okay.”


	2. Chapter 2

Frank’s got one hand full of blond hair and is shoving Nelson face-first against the wall, arm twisted behind his back, with the other before he realizes who he’s manhandling. Frank should’ve known from the way he was almost--not quite, but _almost_ \--too quick to get a grip on, that hair-trigger flight response that jams Frank up every so often out in force here. He eases off but doesn’t let go once it sinks in that it’s Nelson.

“What the _fuck_ , Castle?” Nelson’s voice is partially muffled by the wall, but the irritation comes through clear as day. He squirms, trying to break Frank’s grip on his wrist, and Frank tightens his hold in a silent warning. He’d been ready for a fight, ready for a guy trying to kill him or at least a guy pulling a piece on him, and it turning out to be Nelson’s left him all keyed up with nothing to ground himself on.

“How’d you even find this place?” Frank grunts. Pretending to be a pizza delivery guy is a new one, and Frank almost wants to ask.

“I just ran down Matt’s list of squats with more than twenty guns per square foot,” Nelson tells him, and Frank can hear the eyeroll in his voice. “Turns out the third time really is the charm.”

It’s all sarcasm, a joke, and Frank knows it, but the idea of Nelson knocking on doors looking for him is an unwelcome reminder that Nelson’s done shit exactly as dumb as that.

“Ow, fuck, Castle, _come on_ ,” Nelson hisses, and Frank realizes he’s tensed up and put too much pressure on that arm. He lets go and steps back so abruptly that Nelson staggers before regaining his balance.

Nelson glares at him and rubs his forearm, but he’s not nearly unhappy enough for Frank to have really hurt him. Frank looks away, his skin suddenly feeling tight along the seams. Getting a little too rough with Nelson isn’t something he has the breathing room to care about. He nudges the pizza box open with the toe of his boot. There’s a thick file inside instead of a ruined pie, and Frank scowls as he retrieves it.

“Karen says to try and not get yourself killed,” Nelson tells him sourly. “But, you know, you do you.” 

He bends to pick up the hat Frank knocked off in the half-second tussle, and Frank doesn’t miss the stifled wince.

“I’m sorry,” he manages, because he owes Nelson the apology. 

The guy’s got the obnoxious habit of getting on a high horse about everyone else’s deathwish, pretending the stunts he pulls himself are all fine and dandy, but at least this once Frank didn’t have any cause to go laying hands on him like that. There’s the added guilt of knowing what that thick hair feels like wrapped around his fingers now, of knowing how Nelsons’ body would give or recoil against his, and it scratches at him. He might have wanted to know it--he’ll keep himself honest about that much--but this sure as hell wasn’t how he wanted to come by the information.

Nelson looks taken aback, and Frank wonders how long it’s been since anyone’s apologized to him. Then he’s shooting Frank a narrow look.

“Get off the cross,” Nelson says, shaking his head. “A client decided his best life included getting in a fight with a bailiff. I’m not even sure which one of them cracked that rib.”

“I’m still sorry,” Frank tells him, crossing his arms. A cracked rib isn’t something Frank’s ever let slow him down--he’s probably sporting worse than that now, courtesy of the gunrunners he took out of the game a few days back--but he figures, Murdock excepted, the standards are likely a mite different for a lawyer than a Marine.

Nelson pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fine. Apology accepted. Point the Catholic guilt somewhere else, I’ve had about as much of it as I can stand for one day.”

“Yeah?” Frank snorts. “What’d Murdock do this time?”

“None of your business,” Nelson says, too sharp by half.

Frank raises his eyebrows. Either Murdock really screwed the pooch, or Nelson hadn’t meant to be quite that loose-lipped. Frank wants to poke at him, figure out where this sudden commitment to non-disclosure is coming from. Usually Nelson’s MO is to distract from slips like that, to keep moving at a fast enough clip that it’s hard to keep up with him, half known facts and half disinformation or hypotheticals, churning up the water until it’s so much mud. He doesn’t dig in and call attention to it like that, doesn’t show his cards like that. 

Then Frank sees it--the fatigue carved into Nelson’s face and posture. He’s running on fumes, that adrenaline boost he just caught off of Frank burning up too quick and nothing there to replace it, and Frank can see it in his eyes. Not that it’s his business--Nelson’s right about that. 

Page is as much his problem as she wants to be--she bought that much in blood, sweat, and tears with the whole Blacksmith thing. Murdock’s his problem in a completely different way. Nelson isn’t, and is never gonna be, his problem.

“Jesus,” Frank mutters, shaking his head. “You really do get cranky when you need a nap, don’t you?”

Something close to anger sparks in Nelson’s eyes at that, and it’s easier to look at than the dullness that was there a second ago.

Frank holds up the file. “Tell Miss Page I said thank you.”

Nelson grunts something Frank doesn’t catch and stalks out, and Frank thinks he should chuck a rock at the hornet’s nest, text Page and ask her if Nelson’s okay. 

The thought stops him cold, coming out of nowhere like it does. Siccing them on each other works a hell of a lot better than trying to use them as leverage against each other, sure. Frank’s gotten Murdock to stay down twice now by asking if it was Nelson or Page who was his next of kin. But Frank’s only ever used that discovery to get them out of his way, or keep them from doing something monumentally stupid that’d blow back on him. Doing it out of the blue, over something that smacks of concern, with these three? It’s about as good an idea as playing kick the can in Fallujah.


	3. Chapter 3

“Where’s Page?” Frank demands, hating the pain that seeps into his voice. He’s done, useless, and he fucking knows it. “Where’s the kid?”

“They got clear already. Daredevil--” Nelson breaks off to shove what’s left of a table out of the way, clearing a path out the door. “Daredevil’s making sure they make it to the police okay.”

Frank doesn’t have the energy to waste on spitting out his opinion of the police, of their ability to protect anybody. Then again, he’s put down enough of the mad dogs running this operation that maybe they can handle it. Page had gone pale and wide-eyed at the carnage, but the sort of lowlife that kidnaps a woman’s kid to keep her from testifying against her shitbag boss has it coming, and he can’t imagine Page won’t come around once she’s washed the blood off. He’s not gonna pretend it wasn’t amateur hour from start to finish here, rookie mistake after rookie mistake, but at least the kid didn’t get the same eyeful as Page and Nelson.

Then Nelson’s trying to get him on his feet, and it’s all he can do not to laugh. “The fuck you think you’re doing?”

“Aiding and abetting,” Nelson snaps, and he doesn’t sound happy about it. “Or maybe I just don’t feel like spending my cup-o-noodle money bailing your ass out before they can figure out who you really are.”

Nelson grabs Frank’s wrist, gets himself under Frank’s arm, and hoists. Nelson’s gotten himself on the same side as the ankle Frank’s pretty sure he broke sliding over a corpse, and Frank stifles a grunt when it works, when Nelson bears up under his weight. Nelson’s free hand digs into Frank’s side, clutching at his belt, and Frank bites back a hiss. He doesn’t remember getting tagged there, but it stings like crazy with Nelson putting pressure on it.

They hobble out the back like that, Frank limping like a lame horse and Nelson half-dragging him along. Frank wonders how many times Nelson’s done this for Red, if Frank being bigger is throwing Nelson off some hard-won rhythm. Nelson’s surprisingly solid under his arm and against his side, meat and bone where leaning on Page is like leaning on a bayonet, all hard edges and harder judgment.

He eases Frank into the passenger seat of a shitty sedan, then fucks around under the mangled dashboard until the engine starts up.

“Look at you, bein’ useful,” Frank chuckles. It’s ridiculous, this Ivy-League creampuff of a lawyer hotwiring a car to save Frank’s ass.

Nelson glares at him. “They stole it first.” 

Frank shakes his head and slouches down in the seat, pulling his collar up and his hood down, making it slightly less blindingly obvious that he’s been beat to shit and gave as good as he got. It’s not far to his current flop, at least. It clicks after a block that Nelson doesn’t need directions, knows where it is. Frank wants to ask if Red handed out spare keys while he was at it, but he can’t fit his mouth around the bitterness there. 

This is what gets Murdock back on his feet every time he gets knocked down. This is what’s waiting for Murdock when he drags his carcass in off a fire escape, crawls through the front door, picks up a phone when he can’t even do that much. This is what Murdock’s always trying to throw away, get clear of. There’s a part of Frank that wants to hit him that much harder on account of it.

Frank’s right eye is swelling shut, and he lets it close. He’s tired, tired in a way he can feel running through his veins, like it’s pumping through his heart instead of blood, each beat shoving it deeper and deeper into him, so deep it’ll never drain back out. It’s been so long since it registered, he’d started to believe he was immune to it, and it’s having a field day throwing that hope back in his face now. He can see the rest of his life dragging out ahead of him, one bad fight after another until he’s too broken down to scrape himself off the sidewalk anymore. He hasn’t felt it like this since he was in-country, hasn’t been able to afford feeling it.

Nelson pulls down a shitty alley close to the building’s rear entrance, and Frank pulls himself together. 

“I’ll be back in five,” Nelson says, half-dragging him out of the passenger seat and putting him back on his feet. “Try not to bleed out in the meantime.”

Frank flips him off and leans back against the brick wall heavily to wait. He could get himself inside if he had to; he knows that. He doesn’t have to, and somehow that’s what saps him, rips off the tourniquet and bleeds him dry.

Nelson’s all business when he comes back from ditching the car, peppering Frank with questions about the building, his neighbors, if anybody’s gonna call the cops. Frank misses the uncharacteristic silence of the drive; if anything about the place was going to be a problem, Frank wouldn’t have picked it as a squat. Besides, it’s not like Nelson’s got an alternative--what’s he going to do, smuggle Frank into their fucking rathole of an office? Dump him off with Murdock’s priest to claim sanctuary?

“The kid’s back with his mom,” Nelson informs him, once they’re inside and the door’s bolted. “Karen says he’s fine--just a few bruises.”

Frank grunts and lets Nelson lower him into a chair. The medkit’s across the room, and he considers asking for it for all of half a second. He’s still got his pride. And besides, there’s nothing wrong with him that won’t still be wrong with him in a few hours. He leans back in the chair, ignores the way it feels like ground glass against his skin, and lets both his eyes close this time. He’s hurt, but it’s the sort of hurt that gets in the way of a fight, not the sort of hurt that’ll kill him out of one. He has time to steel himself for what suddenly seems like more effort than he’s capable of.

A heavy metal thump makes him open his eyes again. Nelson’s brought the medkit over and is pawing through it, frowning. His jacket’s off, and Frank lets his gaze wander over all the blood he’s left on Nelson’s shirt. Maybe some of it’s even Nelson’s, but Frank doesn’t think so. He’s not acting hurt, and Frank can’t see Nelson hiding it easy. Besides, Frank hadn’t given them much time to get themselves in real trouble. Nelson and Page went in to pick the kid up while Murdock was supposed to be handling the mom’s deposition, no clue in hell what they were walking into. If Frank hadn’t already been in position…

Frank pushes himself upright, straightens his back even though it feels like splinters digging in. He had been in position. The kid’s fine. Page is fine. Nelson’s fine. Murdock’ll be telling some stupid goddamn lie about falling down the stairs into somebody’s fist for the next few weeks, but he’ll be fine, too.

Then Nelson kneels and starts unlacing Frank’s boot, careful as he can not to jostle that ankle, and Frank stares at him, the shock of it almost blotting out the shock of the pain clawing up his leg.

“The fuck’re you doing?” he hisses, glowering.

“Splinting your ankle?” Nelson asks, his lips twisting into a pout. “Unless you’re a lot more flexible than you look, it’s a pain in the ass to do it yourself.”

“The hell would you know about that?” Frank asks. His knuckles go white around the seat of the chair when Nelson eases the boot off. He can see Nelson’s eyes flicking to Frank’s hands, can see the calculation on Nelson’s face, but otherwise Nelson doesn’t let on like he’s running the numbers on whether or not Frank’s safe to be around right this second.

Nelson tosses the boot aside, pulls Frank’s sock off, and winces at the swelling. It’s probably not a break, now that Frank’s got some distance on it. A bad sprain, maybe something torn, but no broken bones. Frank’s seen worse--had worse--but it’s never pretty. Nelson digs a wrap out of the kit and gets to work, and he actually seems to know what he’s doing.

“Get a lot of practice in on Murdock, don’t you?” Frank mutters. 

Nelson’s lips thin at that, and Frank braces for payback. That dig went a lot deeper than he meant it to, or maybe just a lot deeper than he wanted it to. But however much Nelson’s eyes harden, his hands stay gentle. It’s only once Nelson’s secured the splint and straightened up that Frank gets his retort.

“I was in the boy scouts, asshole,” Nelson spits.

It fits, Frank thinks. He had to have picked up that dumbshit, can-do, chipper attitude of his somewhere, and it sure as fuck wasn’t running around Hell’s Kitchen. 

Then Nelson’s frowning at a jagged cut on Frank’s forearm and reaching for the iodine, and it’s not funny anymore. Frank doesn’t stop him--he should, he knows he should--but the problem is Nelson’s not entirely wrong about it being a fucking pain. Every so often an enemy’d have the courtesy to only land a blow somewhere Frank could stitch up by himself, but most of ‘em would settle for wherever they could get around his defenses. Frank’s hands are shaking like a drunk’s now, and his knuckles are swollen and stiffening, and the iodine’s one thing but the butterfly bandages Nelson deploys in a nice, neat row from one end of the laceration to the other aren’t something Frank could manage on his own.

Before Frank knows it, he’s holding an ice pack to his right eye with one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, turned around in the chair with Nelson trying to do something about the mess he’s made of his back. It should hurt, but between the softness of Nelson’s hands and the lightness of his touch and the constant jittery narration distracting him-- _irritating_ him--it’s more of an ache.

“Shit.” Frank can hear Nelson sucking air through his teeth. “This one’s going to sting--you’ve got some broken glass in this scrape.”

Frank grunts, and Nelson sighs and gets back to work. As quick as Nelson bristled about doing this for Murdock, Frank has no doubt that’s where he picked up his bedside manner. He’s too goddamned tender, like he’d rather grab a scalpel by the blade than dish out any additional pain, and Frank can feel the hand absently resting on his ribs to steady him almost as sharp as the tweezers picking out the shards. There’s nothing to distract from the way it burns in the cool air, brands an imprint of Nelson’s fingers into Frank’s skin. 

Somewhere else, Page would be doing this for Murdock, wouldn’t she? Fussing over him like a mother hen. Murdock’s probably wishing they could trade; Page’s hands shake when she gets nervous, adrenaline turning her fingers cold and clumsy. For the life of him, though, Frank can’t imagine Murdock actually letting Nelson fuss. He barely lets Nelson touch him when he’s hurt, from what Frank’s seen. 

It slowly dawns on Frank as Nelson’s applying an ointment to the abrasion he just finished cleaning that Murdock probably doesn’t, that Frank’s the beneficiary of years of frustrated worry on Nelson’s part. It’s been dammed up with nowhere to go since god only knows when, and now it’s spilling out in ice packs and bandaids applied to a man he doesn’t even like in a squalid safehouse. 

Frank’s pretty sure he should feel some sort of way about that, but he doesn’t have the tools right now to make it anything more or less than what it is. He can’t remember the last time somebody put their hands on him like this, and it’s more than he can manage to care that it rightfully belongs to someone else. Or maybe it doesn’t--if Red’s too much the martyr to take something when it’s offered, it doesn’t follow that Frank needs to make the same mistake.

Frank doesn’t realize he’s drifting off until Nelson’s prodding him awake.

“Come on, Castle,” Nelson says. “Stay with me, here.”

“I’m tired, not concussed,” Frank growls. Nelson’s picked the one patch of shoulder he can get a hold of without hitting a bruise, cut, or scar, and Frank wishes there was at least still cloth between them.

“Humor me,” Nelson says. “Date, president’s name, current address, whatever.”

“What time is it?” Frank asks, giving in.

“Twelve-thirty.”

“Then it’s the fifth. Happy?”

Nelson looks around the apartment and makes a face. “Happier than if you had a concussion.”

“Like your place is the Ritz,” Frank says.

Nelson frowns like he’s not sure whether to believe Frank’s seen the inside of his apartment or not, and Frank rolls his eyes. This from the guy who had the route to Frank’s residence of two weeks memorized.

Nelson pulls Frank to his feet, and Frank isn’t prepared for Nelson’s arm across the bare skin of his back, Nelson’s hand on the bare skin of his waist, the heaviness of Frank’s own half-naked body pressed against his. It was different, before Nelson spent the better part of two hours patching him back together. 

Nelson lowers him slowly, carefully, to the bed, and Frank makes himself let go. When Nelson sets about arranging the pillows so Frank’s ankle is immobilized and elevated, it’s hard not to think that maybe this whole thing is a delusion, maybe Frank really did crack his skull open like an egg, this is the result of his brains finally leaking into the gutter.

Except he didn’t, and this isn’t. This is playing out, and Nelson’s cleaning up and picking up his jacket and getting ready to go do whatever the fuck it is he does after the dust settles. Frank’s eyes blink back open. He knows by now what it is Nelson’s heading back out to do. Comb through the rubble and hassle the cops and shake people down for witness statements before their common sense kicks back in and they clam up. Get his name out there as the guy asking questions, the guy with the big mouth and the law degree, the guy that’s gonna be a problem. Probably tell the DA to blow him for good measure, knowing Nelson. 

Red holes up to lick his wounds or tears off to pick up some new ones, and Page and Nelson bicker over who gets what end of the anthill to start stirring up looking for evidence or new leads or something to make sense of what just went down.

Nelson flicks the blanket over Frank and goes to hit the light, and the thought of Nelson back out on the streets, alone and looking for trouble, crawls up Frank’s spine and sinks its teeth in.

“Don’t go,” he says, voice hoarse with the sleep that’s not far off now. 

Nelson stops, brows furrowing. “Castle? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I just don’t…” There aren’t words for it, what Frank wants. Murdock thinks if he just keeps them at arm’s length, if he doesn’t let himself have friends, then they won’t get hurt. Something taught him early and hard that bad things happen to the people who love him; if he can manage how close they get, they’ll be safer. Frank knows better. Page, Nelson--they aren’t getting out of this alive any more than he and Red are. They might go out quicker, might last a little longer; at the end of the day, they’re not the sort of people who make it. But if it could just not happen tonight, if Frank could close his eyes this once and know it wouldn’t happen while he slept, that would be a mercy. “Stay, all right?”

Nelson hesitates, and Frank can see it in the way he holds himself: duty calls, but it’s a duty he’s not in a big hurry to shoulder. Identifying corpses, subpoenaing the official version of things he lived through, scrubbing someone else’s blood out of his clothes, off his hands--none of it’s the life he thought he was signing up for. Then he sets everything back down, and Frank relaxes. 

Not tonight. Tomorrow, maybe, or the day after, but not tonight.

“All right.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Metro-General’s the other way,” Nelson grunts, and it takes Frank a good two full minutes to swallow enough of his anger to answer.

“We ain’t going to the hospital.” Nelson’s sharp intake of breath draws Frank’s eyes, and his hands tighten on the wheel. “What do I gotta do, say it in Latin? _Keep the goddamn pressure on._ ”

“Look, I get it,” Nelson says, through clenched teeth, and it’s more pain than anger because he’s at least doing as Frank says for once. “You’re a wanted fugitive, you can’t drop me off. If you just pull the fuck over for five seconds, I can call myself an ambulance, because _I’m not._ Normal person here, remember?”

It’s ridiculous enough that Frank can’t help the laugh that punches its way out of his chest, Nelson with a hole in his fucking side, trying for his best reasonable-adult tone and telling Frank he’s normal. He can feel Nelson glaring at him, and he’s not sure whether it’s because he’s not slowing down or because he laughed.

“Unlike you, I can just go to a doctor instead of stapling myself back together, toppling into a bathtub, and hoping I wake up the next morning,” Nelson continues, his voice all acid and sharp edges.

“Figured you’d appreciate not having to mop a pool of blood off your kitchen floor,” Frank says. He’d figured on Nelson never finding out about it, figured on Nelson being too wrapped up with that ice-water blonde of his to make it home that night. Figured he’d thin the vodka, rinse out the tub, and only take half the cash. Figured if Nelson noticed later, he’d blame Red. Frank had at least had half a plan, there. “The fuck you think you were doing, back there?”

“Uh, playing dumb, bluffing, and running like hell,” Nelson tells him. “In that order.”

“Being there in the first place,” Frank growls. Nelson knows what he meant. Frank can almost remember a time when he thought this--Nelson playing dumb, Nelson acting like he doesn’t know exactly what somebody’s trying to say when he doesn’t want to hear it--was the most annoying thing about him.

“Oh, that,” Nelson mutters. “I was leveraging the power of being an average white guy in a suit who doesn’t look like he picks bar fights for a living to retrieve the financials we’re going to need if anybody’s going to have a prayer of stopping these assholes.”

“You were getting fucking stabbed, is what you were doing.” The battered leather bag in the footwell could be stuffed full of thousand-euro bills, for all Frank cares. Nelson had no business trying to pull this off by himself, with no back-up. If Frank hadn’t already been out looking for him, Murdock and Page would’ve been down at the morgue come daylight, IDing his corpse. “The hell was Red thinking, letting you--”

“He’s not my fucking babysitter, Castle,” Nelson says, and Frank can feel the livewire wearing through its insulation there. Murdock doesn’t know. Good information to have, for all the use it’ll be to Frank. If Murdock ever does get close to killing him, it’ll be over something like this.

Frank doesn’t see the pothole until it’s too late to do more than pump the brakes, and the shock it sends through the frame, through the seat, up his spine, is nothing compared to the way his skin crawls when Nelson curls in on himself and whimpers, half-choking on it like he’s trying his damnedest not to make a sound. There’s a second, the space of a blink, between Frank’s eyelids closing and them snapping back open, where he’s strapped into an overturned JLTV listening to someone bleed out and waiting for worse. Then Nelson draws a deep, shuddering breath and braces himself against the door.

“Hospital,” Nelson says. His voice is quiet enough that Frank almost can’t hear it crack, can’t hear how done he is. “Please.”

“They’re gonna be looking, Nelson,” Frank tells him, shaking his head. “You go from some jerkoff in a cheap suit to a guy with a name and an address and a place of business, and whoever they send to get their shit back’s gonna do a hell of a lot worse than that nick you’ve got now.”

He’s not sure he could stand his ground on it, if they weren’t so close to the safehouse. As it is, it’s a near thing, even knowing that Nelson’s been moving too easy for the blade to have cut through to muscle. Frank hadn’t even realized Nelson got hit until they’d gotten clear of the fight and left the Hand in the dust.

Nelson just about falls on him as soon as Frank opens the door, and Frank’s equal parts relieved and pissed when he sees one hand pressed hard against the wound and one hand wrapped around the goddamned bag. If Nelson’s still with it enough to keep tabs on what he’s been bleeding for, he’s not going into shock. Frank pries it out of Nelson’s death-grip, throws it over his shoulder, and guides Nelson inside.

The local comes first; everything else’ll be easier if Nelson’s not trying to hold still through the pain and Frank’s not trying to ignore every flinch and gasp. He’s pretty sure he wouldn’t have minded so much, not that long ago, but then again maybe that’s just another lie he told himself to get through the day. It’s not like he’s ever had to put it to the test, ever had to ruck up a blood-soaked shirt and stick a needle into blood-slick skin and pretend like the resulting pained grunt wasn’t raising the hair on the back of his neck at the same time it’s pushing buttons that make his stomach turn.

As much as he’s locked horns with Murdock and Page, as hard as he’s fought them when they won’t let him be, he shouldn’t give a shit about Nelson. It’s just words; Nelson’s never gonna get between him and some murdering shitbag and make Frank feel guilty for making the world a better place. Somehow he’s managed to get just as deep under Frank’s skin though, like a fish hook rusting out in his jaw. There’s something about him that gets Frank’s wires crossed in a way Frank can’t fix. 

It was obvious from the get-go with Murdock, with that suit and that martyr complex and that painful fucking smile of his. Just as obvious with Page, with those big blue eyes and those fingers that can’t stay out of her hair and that bottomless need to save everyone. Frank had known to tread lightly, not that it had helped in the end. Nelson didn’t come off any different than a hundred other dumbasses out there thinking they were smartasses, bantamweights thinking they had a shot at the belt, coasting off just enough brains to get themselves in trouble. Frank’s met a lot of those guys, and pretty much the only thing he’s ever wanted was out of their company as soon as humanly possible. 

He shouldn’t find himself wanting to catch Nelson by the collar when he gets too far out in front, shove Nelson behind him when they’re going in blind. He shouldn’t find himself growling at Nelson for not locking his windows when it’s Frank breaking in.

It’s a goddamned painful fucking relief when the anesthetic finally kicks in, and Nelson’s breathing goes from that careful inhale-exhale pattern that tells Frank he’s counting to something shaky but natural. Frank adjusts the angle of the lamp, checks the packages of gauze and medical tape, and kicks himself for not replacing the scissors the last time he had to ditch his digs in a hurry. It hadn’t seemed like a real problem, when he’d been working on himself.

“Let go,” he says, tapping Nelson’s elbow. 

Nelson lets his hand drop gingerly, uncurls his hand from the wadded-up jacket, grimaces at the blood clotting in the creases of his fingers, and then damn near jumps out of his skin when Frank rips his shirt open. Frank catches the fabric in his fists and pulls back reflexively, and it’s all that keeps Nelson in the chair.

“Easy, easy,” he murmurs, not relaxing his grip until he’s sure Nelson’s gonna stay put. “You’re okay.”

“Jesus Christ,” Nelson breathes, too rattled to glare at him. Frank takes the opportunity to pull the button-down off him and start on the thin A-shirt that’s pasted to his side like a caul. He starts the tear with a knife--just a small folding blade, not the sort of thing Frank would take to a person unless he was out of better options--but Nelson goes too still, eyes focused on Frank’s hands.

“Easy,” Frank says again, as he pulls the fabric apart, slower this time so he doesn’t start that slash in Nelson’s side bleeding again. “You’re gonna be fine.” 

He tries not to remember that day in the hospital, before Page had dropped the bomb that blew up what was left of his life, Frank still strapped to the bed and Nelson hovering behind that stupid line with a banker’s box full of files and the dumbest fucking idea Frank had ever heard for saving his worthless fucking life.

Frank had felt like he’d gone slow, when it finally clicked. 

_“You’re afraid of me.”_

_“No shit,” Nelson had said, not looking up from his notes. “Don’t let it go to your head, buddy--I’m also afraid of climate change, ebola, and literally every spider on the face of the planet.”_

It drove Frank nuts, back then, the way Nelson would make pronouncements about what was and wasn’t gonna work for his defense without even a glance in Frank’s direction. It had made him feel like an animal in a cage almost as much as the cuffs and the guards. Now he can look back and see that it was mutual, that Nelson wanted away from him so bad he could taste it, would have set a new land-speed record out of that room if it hadn’t meant leaving Page behind to face down Frank alone. Frank had picked up on the crush Nelson had on her, but he’d missed the part where Nelson would take a bullet for her.

Frank wants to curse when the neckline won’t give. Instead he puts a wad of gauze into Nelson’s hand, presses it firm against the now-visible wound, and says, “Hold still.”

Nelson does, face too blank and eyes focused on the far wall, and Frank hates it like poison, but it lets him get the shirt off without moving Nelson around too much. There’s what can only be a fucking bullet scar on Nelson’s shoulder and another old slice on his ribs, and if it weren’t for that absent look and careful breathing, Frank might give in to the urge to start demanding answers. 

Instead he goes to work cleaning up the cut, soothing Nelson whenever he starts shaking too badly. The blade was sharp, he’ll give the Hand that much--the wound’s edges are clean, and there’s no thread or debris embedded in it. As he expected, it’s comparatively superficial. It’s bled like a mother, and it’s going to take a lot of thread to close up right, but if Nelson can get a round of antibiotics off whatever sympathetic doctor patched Frank up the night he passed out in Nelson’s bathroom, it should heal up without further intervention.

“You’re good,” Frank says. “You’re gonna be fine.”

He’s torn between getting this over with, using big, functional stitches that get the wound closed in a hurry, and taking his time over it. Smaller stitches will give a cleaner result. He doesn’t like to think of a thick, angry scar sitting on Nelson’s skin like an indictment, doesn’t like the idea of Murdock’s or Page’s fingers lingering on it like his own fingers might’ve on the other two. It would probably be easier if he could get Nelson to lay down, but Frank can tell that’s going to be a bridge too far.

By the time he’s finished, Nelson’s too gone to flinch when Frank cleans the rest of the blood off his chest and belly as best he can and wraps him in a blanket. When Frank gets him on his feet, the other shoe finally drops, and Nelson starts shaking like a leaf, an uncontrollable whole-body shiver. Frank knows what he needs to do, has been through this on both sides of the fence more times than he can count, but he’s still ashamed of how much he has to brace himself for it. 

He’d jumped into the fray with no hesitation when the knives came out, but wrapping his arms around Nelson and holding him, pressing his back against Frank’s chest--that’s got him waiting for the hammer to come down. He doesn’t think he can keep going if Nelson fights him on it, if Nelson’s first thought is that Frank’s going to hurt him. Nelson makes a noise too much like the whimper in the van, like he’s trying to keep Frank from knowing how much pain he’s in, but at the same time his hands wrap around Frank’s forearms like he’s hanging on for dear life. 

“Shh,” Frank says, tightening his grip as much as he can without pulling on that raw wound. “You’re done. Light at the end of the tunnel. It’s over.”

Nelson’s breathing slows and evens out, gets deeper, and some of the color starts coming back into his skin. He goes a little looser in Frank’s arms, and the shivering gets less violent and starts tapering off.

“I’m sorry,” Nelson mumbles, after another minute. There’s no trace of the earlier bravado, the steel-threaded anger when Frank had demanded to know why he hadn’t let on about being hurt.

_“And give that guy the satisfaction of knowing he got me? Fuck him. If he wanted that kind of consideration, he shouldn’t have stabbed me.”_

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Frank says, careful now as he’d been stitching torn skin. Slipping here’ll leave a different sort of scar. “It happens.”

He doesn’t let go until Nelson’s hands drop, doesn’t want to even then, but the shaking has completely subsided and exhaustion is setting in. He sets Nelson down on the couch, puts a pill in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

“You’re not running around out here with a penicillin allergy, are you?” Frank sighs, when Nelson just looks at the pill. There’s a frustrated, tired part of him that sees the scar on Nelson’s shoulder, visible where the blanket’s folded down, and wants to shove the medicine into his mouth and make him take it. The crooked slice across Nelson’s ribs was no joke, either--this isn’t Nelson’s first rodeo. He knows the drill, and there’s no call for digging in his heels just because it’s Frank taking care of him this time instead of Page or Murdock. The impulse dies when Frank notices the blood under his fingernails. Nelson’s blood.

Nelson finally gives in when Frank crosses his arms and waits. It’s the last flicker of defiance, and once Nelson lifts the glass to his lips, he realizes how thirsty he is. He hasn’t lost so much blood--it could’ve been a lot worse--but between that, the stress, and the pain, Frank knows how a person gets wrung out. He drinks as much water as Frank asks him to, doesn’t resist when Frank stretches him out on the couch and throws another blanket over him. That shaggy mop of hair is plastered to his neck and his forehead, and Frank brushes it back without thinking. Nelson doesn’t wake up properly, just leans into it and makes a noise that tightens Frank’s belly.

He snaps out of it and jerks his hand back like he’s been burned. He’s covered in Nelson’s blood--not soaked, but a little goes a helluva long way with blood. Once he starts cleaning it up, he can’t seem to stop, repulsed by the stains. He hasn’t given a shit about his own blood on things in over a decade. He’s spilled an ocean of strangers’ without batting an eye. He didn’t think it could even register for him anymore until Page had… he can’t remember now, whose blood it was, where it had come from. 

Probably not the first time his bullshit had dirtied her up, but the first time it stopped him cold, that rust-red spray across the white silk of her blouse. It had been like a knife going through him, that sudden realization that she wasn’t ever going to walk away, wasn’t ever going to play it safe. One day, it was gonna be hers, too much to survive, and it’d be either his fault or Murdock’s.

He should call Page to come deal with this. She’ll be worried when she finds out Nelson got hurt, pissed when she finds out Frank didn’t tell her. But he knows by now what’ll happen when she gets here. She’ll want to know what went down, start asking questions, and Nelson’ll want to explain everything, start answering them. Their instincts are bad enough separately, but there’ll be no handling them together. He’ll be lucky if they’re not back out the door looking for worse within thirty minutes of her showing up. Frank can usually arm-twist and intimidate them out of anything genuinely suicidal when it’s one-on-one, but their default inclination is still to back each other up against him, even when--maybe especially when--he’s right. 

Calling Murdock is out of the question. Frank stoops and picks up a white plastic button. There’s blood soaking the torn threads that were holding it onto the shirt he tore off Nelson, and Frank tosses it into the garbage, where it’s one more piece of evidence from the crime-scene clean-up. This is bad enough that Murdock won’t ask for an explanation before he’s baring his teeth and growling--Frank sure as shit wouldn’t, if he was the one walking into it with no brief. And as much as Frank would love a fight right now, as good as it would feel to punch somebody’s fucking lights out, there’s no way in hell Nelson would stay out of it.

Frank wipes his face on the back of his arm and glowers at the inert form under the blankets. It’s hard not to wonder what Murdock’s ever done to inspire that sort of dumbfuck loyalty. 

Page at least has a good excuse. Frank made the mistake of asking once, got a rattled-off list of times and dates she’d have been dead if it wasn’t for Murdock coming to her rescue, not because she’d been anything to him at the time but because it was the right thing to do, because he was a good person. Frank hadn’t asked about Nelson. Nelson’s an easier sell, so far as Frank can see. He’s aggravating, sure, but he’s not as demanding as Murdock is. And it’s not like Page is so full up on friends that having some pushover with a law degree wrapped around her little finger wouldn’t come in handy. She’d given Frank that speech anyway, for good measure. Nelson had helped her, believed in her, tried to protect her when no one else would or could. Nelson was a good friend.

The sort of friend who’s always there to drag someone out of the gutter, patch up a near-fatal wound, keep the business running when there’s no money coming in. Some of it’s Murdock’s looks, Frank’s sure. Nelson probably fell just as hard and fast as Page did; the spat Nelson and Murdock had during his trial had all the hallmarks of a breakup happening even though neither one wanted to call it quits. The rest of it? Frank’s got the ugly suspicion it was just blind luck, that Nelson was a stray dog and Murdock was the first person with a kind word and a warm bed. It could have been anyone.

Could have been anyone, Frank thinks, but it was Murdock, and there’s no changing that now. Not in a way that’ll stick. If it bothers Page, Frank’s never seen any sign of it, but then again she’s in the same boat. If neither of them are ever really gonna leave Red to his little crusade, Frank can’t imagine it matters much that they’re more there for him than they are for each other. They’re not alone, and they’re not leaving--that’s what counts. 

It’d be less galling if Murdock seemed to appreciate it more.

The only thing Frank doesn’t clean off is the leather bag. It’s not going to come out of the beaten-up leather anyway, and maybe whatever look Page’s gonna give Nelson when she sees the bloody goddamned handprint on it will actually get through his thick skull. Frank throws it in his hardware trunk and locks it just in case Nelson’s got some idea about sneaking out while he’s gone, then takes a walk to find a safe dumpster to dispose of everything in. When he gets back, he’s a little calmer, a little more centered.

It helps him stay sharp, when Nelson’s phone gets a text from Page. Frank unlocks it, wonders if Murdock knows the lock-pattern’s a stylized N&M. Frank didn’t put it together until he watched Page one time, her careful, deliberate movements a hell of a lot easier to follow than Nelson’s practiced slap-dash. The simple, ambiguous “Hey, where are you?” from her sends Frank tracking back through their history. If Nelson scheduled a meet after this, there’s no avoiding her. He’ll have to set some ground-rules.

It doesn’t look like there’s a broken date anywhere, though, and Frank doesn’t think twice before texting back, “Busy. Why, everything okay?”

Nelson’s style is at least simple to mimic, no weird acronyms or emoji-heavy shorthand. They probably play merry hell with Murdock’s text-to-speech software, so it makes a certain amount of sense. Frank’s not sure if Nelson’s protective or Page is just unintentionally vague, but a full half of her open-ended queries get that ‘everything okay?’ tacked onto the reply, like Nelson’s constantly expecting the worst with her. Frank thinks of the list of times Murdock saved her life that first year she fell in with them. Nelson might just be playing the odds.

“Matt got JJ out of custody. Are you two still fighting?”

Frank rubs his eyes. Of course they’re still fighting. Why else would it be Nelson trying to finesse a bunch of files away from a cult of murderous ninja instead of Murdock going in, armor on and fists up? Might even be what they’re fighting about; god knows it would’ve been a cage-match if Nelson had run this idea past Frank before putting it into action.

“It’s complicated. Can we talk in the morning?”

It’s a politic answer that sticks a pin in the conversation before Frank has the chance to miss a step and set off her reporter-senses, get her calling to make sure Nelson’s all right, sending Murdock looking when Nelson doesn’t pick up.

The curt response--“Fine.”--tells Frank Nelson’s likely in for it next time he sees Page, but he’s in for it anyway when she sees that blood-spattered leather satchel. Frank stretches, works some of the kinks out of his back, and unrolls his sleeping bag on the floor. If they were going to get any surprise visitors or a hail of gunfire, it would’ve happened already, and Frank didn’t see anything out of keeping with the neighborhood on his way back from disposing of the evidence. He checks on Nelson one last time, then turns out the lights.

* * *

It’s barely dawn when Frank wakes up. He lies there in the gray half-light, motionless and listening. There’s nothing; everything’s as it should be. Or at least, it’s as he left it. None of Frank’s failsafes have been tripped, but last night wasn’t just a particularly stupid nightmare--Nelson’s asleep on the couch, his breathing soft and even. Frank drags himself out of the sleeping bag and cleans himself up, staying quiet enough he doesn’t wake Nelson.

By the time it’s light enough that Nelson wakes up by himself, Frank’s as presentable as he ever gets and ready to wade back into it. Nelson blinks dumbly at the two pills, the protein bar, and the glass of water on the table in front of him, then sucks in a surprised breath when he tries to sit up.

“Morning, sunshine,” Frank says, dropping the leather bag next to a chair. He presses the back of his hand against Nelson’s forehead, then the sides of his throat, and Nelson bats him away with a scowl. 

“Fuck off, I’m fine,” he snaps. The show of gingerly levering himself into a sitting position tells Frank exactly how fine he is, and Nelson knows it, but if he was the sort of person to do the sensible thing and admit it, he wouldn’t have been mixing it up with a bunch of sword-swinging goons in the first place.

Frank sits down and raises his eyebrows, and Nelson pulls the blanket tighter around himself and tries to look something other than miserable as he takes the antibiotic.

“What’s this?” he asks, shooting a pointed look at the other pill.

“Painkiller. Figured you might want it, what with being fine and all.”

Nelson’s lips quirk, and he shakes his head. “I’ve got a court date right after lunch. The judge already hates me, the client’s toast if I show up doped.”

“You’ve got a…” Frank can feel a headache starting somewhere behind his eyes. “You’ve got a dozen stitches, is what you’ve got. Take a fucking sick day. Jesus.”

Nelson at least starts eating without being prompted, and Frank hopes maybe it’s a peace offering.

“You take a sick day when you’re a defense attorney, your client gets fucked,” Nelson explains slowly, like Frank’s an idiot, and it’s definitely not a peace offering. “And then their dependent minor offspring get fucked, because the foster system’s a nightmare and there’s a reason daddy dearest doesn’t have custody in the first place. And the chronically ill parent for whom they’re the only caretaker gets fucked because medicare doesn’t kick in until you’re on disability for twenty-four consecutive months and some rat-bastard executive raided the pension and there’s no money left to offset the cost of care. The neighbor kids your client babysits for probably get fucked too, but who knows, maybe there’s some other responsible adult on that floor who’ll give a shit about making sure they get to a doctor when they’re running a dangerously high fever or suddenly having seizures or step on a rusty nail while grandma’s pulling a triple trying to keep the lights on.”

He looks Frank dead in the eye, like he’s daring Frank to offer his usual opinion on the sort of clients Nelson and Murdock take on, and Frank’s got better things to do than take that bait.

“So get your boyfriend to handle it,” Frank tells him. “That’s why there’s two of you, right?”

“Matt’s not my boyfriend,” Nelson snaps, and somehow Frank’s just pissed him off even more. Some of it’s the pain, he’s sure, but this isn’t the fight he’s looking to have.

“Okay,” Frank says, raising his hands. “Your same-sex domestic companion, soulmate, non-exclusive romantic affiliate, whatever the fuck the cool kids are calling it these days. Why we couldn’t all just stick with ‘partner’ and have done, I’m sure I don’t know. Have him deal with it.”

Nelson stares at him for a second, and Frank wonders if maybe he should have taken a little more time over checking Nelson for a fever.

“We’re not together,” Nelson tells him, finally, in a more carefully moderated tone. “Matt’s straight.”

Frank’s disbelief must show on his face, because Nelson’s expression goes resigned and he says, “Scout’s honor. Straightest guy to ever straight his way down Straight Boulevard. Just ask him.”

“Sure about that, is he?” Frank asks. He’s seen the way that idiot looks at Nelson when he says something kind, or funny, or complimentary, the way he leans into Nelson whenever he forgets he’s too burdened with the fate of mankind for human needs.

“Not exactly the sort of thing you can argue with somebody about,” Nelson retorts. Frank supposes he’s not entirely wrong about that, but at the same time if anyone could and would, it’s probably Nelson. “Besides, even if he wasn’t, he and Karen are perfect for each other, so it’s a moot point.” 

Nelson looks around, suddenly uncomfortable on account of something besides the sutures holding his skin together, and curls his fingers in the blanket. Frank tries to keep his pokerface on, tries not to betray any interest in the gaping crack Nelson’s just shown in his defenses.

“Where the fuck is my shirt? I need to get going.”

“In a dumpster behind the CVS five blocks down,” Frank tells him. Nelson just looks at him, so he keeps going. “If you want to go grab it, you can’t miss it--it’s the one covered in blood, with the foot-long hole in the fucking side.” He pretends to think about it for a second. “Maybe you can have Page pick it up for you. She texted last night, seemed kinda put out about you and Murdock’s little tiff. I think she’s expecting a call this morning.”

Nelson glares at him and unlocks his phone, starts scrolling through it. Frank digs out a decent t-shirt. It’s black, so it won’t show even if Nelson winds up with seep-through on the bandage over his side, it’s long enough to cover the stains on the waistband of his slacks, and it should be loose enough on Nelson that no one’ll be able to tell he’s sporting a dressing. It’s one of Frank’s better ones, even if it’s a little light for the weather. 

His fingers curl around the sleeve of one of his old hoodies, his thumbnail catching on the USMC logo printed on it, and he hesitates for a moment. It’s an asshole move. He has three others he’d never miss, nondescript things Nelson could just as easily own or have gotten off anyone at any point. His grip on the one that’s definitely, unquestionably his tightens, and he tosses the t-shirt to Nelson.

“I can’t believe you broke into my phone and texted Karen,” Nelson grumbles. He unfolds the t-shirt and wrinkles his nose.

“It’s clean, princess,” Frank says, trying not to laugh at the look on Nelson’s face. He’s seen that same expression on a skin-and-bones alleycat circling a tin, trying to decide if the food in it was up to its standards. “And what was I supposed to do? Let her get worried enough to call out the cavalry?”

“Ignore it and let me deal with it in the morning?” Nelson suggests, shaking the shirt out. “And Matt and I aren’t ‘having a tiff.’ He’s going to get himself killed, and I’d like that to not happen.” He starts trying to get it on without pulling his stitches. “So, you know, it’s more like an ongoing philosophical debate.” The shirt catches, and Nelson yanks at it, frustration finally spilling over. “Fuck, _ow_.”

Frank sighs and takes a knee beside the couch, peels the blanket the rest of the way off him, then takes a careful handful of the hem and helps tug the shirt down. When he’s satisfied with the results, he leans back and realizes exactly how close they are. Nelson’s gone still, his breathing careful, but it’s a completely different animal than the stillness, the carefulness of last night. Frank thinks back to the bitter edge of Nelson’s _“Just ask him.”_ and wonders if Nelson’s just as starved for it as Murdock is, if it’s not worse for the guy who knows exactly what he wants but isn’t making a move because he’s been told not to.

“You givin’ me that look on account of what you’re afraid I’m gonna do, or on account of what you want me to do?” Frank asks softly.

Nelson’s eyes go wide, and there’s a split-second where Frank thinks he’s going to get an honest answer. Then an angry flush blooms on Nelson’s cheeks, and his jaw clenches. He shoves Frank away, and Frank stands up and takes a step back, waiting to see how the chips are going to fall. 

“Do you have to be such a dick?” Nelson demands, looking down, away, ashamed. 

He gets to his feet too fast, and there’s pain stiffening his movements. Frank catches him by the front of his shirt--Frank’s shirt--and drags him into a rough kiss. Nelson pulls back reflexively, then softens into it, lets Frank shove his tongue into his mouth, doesn’t flinch away when Frank’s fingers tangle in his hair. Another heartbeat or two, and Nelson’s hands are digging into the small of Frank’s back, clinging, holding on. Nelson kisses him back hungrily, goes pliant in Frank’s grip, and this is it, this is exactly what Frank’s been looking for out of him since god knows when. 

The realization lands like a sledgehammer, and it fires Frank’s blood like he’s about to plow into a fight, makes it hard not to just hold on tighter when Nelson twists to the side, pulls back, rests his forehead on the meat of Frank’s shoulder. Frank makes himself uncurl his hands, makes himself keep his hold light when he rests them on Nelson’s hips instead.

“This is a bad idea.” It’s quiet, Nelson telling himself as much as telling Frank.

“You’ve had worse ones,” Frank points out. If he turns his head, Nelson’s throat will be against his lips, so he does. Nelson shudders against him, can’t seem to help the groan, the way his mouth falls open, in response.

“I really, really haven’t,” Nelson breathes. His hands are tight on Frank’s belt, and Frank waits for him to make up his mind. He’s not above putting a thumb on the scale by sucking gently at the delicate skin below Nelson’s jaw, and the way Nelson just fucking melts into it makes him pray that Nelson decides to make this mistake.

The way Nelson’s center of gravity shifts gives him the answer, and Frank makes himself let go and step away. He tosses the hoodie at Nelson and smirks. “You know how to find me when you change your mind.”

Nelson blushes and looks away, but it’s nothing like when he thought Frank was mocking him, more like if Frank plays his cards right he’ll get that call. Nelson registers what the logo on the hoodie is and shoots Frank an exasperated look that says he knows exactly why Frank picked it, and Frank lets his smirk widen.

“You gonna let me give you a ride home, or are you planning on hoofing it to court?” Frank asks, because he can’t resist needling Nelson just a little.

“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to ask,” Nelson says, “did you want a hand painting ‘Free candy’ on the sides of that van, or are you just waiting until the weather’s a little nicer so you can knock it out yourself on a weekend?”

“We can’t all hotwire whatever beater catches our fancy when we need a car,” Frank points out. It’s like some release valve got tripped in the last minute, let all the tension out of the room. He’s not sure if it’s because he kissed Nelson, or because he let go without a fight. Maybe both.

“Seriously, though, how do you not get pulled over the second a cop sees you in that thing? There might as well be a ‘corpse on board’ sticker in the back window. Did it used to be a serial killer’s daily driver and you--” Nelson stops and makes a face, then holds up a hand when Frank opens his mouth. “ _Don’t_ answer that.”

“I bought it at auction,” Frank says. “Asshole.”

Nelson pulls the hoodie on. He’s careful about it, but it’s a zip-up so it’s not giving him nearly the same grief as the t-shirt did, and Frank doesn’t have an excuse to help. Nelson stares down at the USMC in faded letters and rubs his forehead.

“Seriously, though, you’re never gonna get a cab to stop for you. Not around here, not looking like that.” Frank spreads his hands. “Far be it from me to keep you from a three-mile walk of shame, but…”

“Christ, fine,” Nelson mutters. “Yes, you can give me a ride back to my apartment.”

“Okay,” Frank says with a shrug, “if you insist.”

He can’t hold back the chuckle at Nelson’s frustrated groan.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s Page who brings his shirt back a few days later, swings by all nonchalant like she just happened to be in the neighborhood, figured she’d drop in to have a beer and watch the game. She’s got a flimsy excuse--three heavily-redacted pages in a manila envelope documenting CIA involvement in his last mission for the Corps. Frank already knew it, and he’s past the point of asking for proof, but he takes it off her hands anyway.

“Foggy says thanks for the loan,” she says, tossing him the t-shirt. There’s no sign of the hoodie, and the shirt’s been washed, and the way she’s holding herself points to the least subtle boobie trap he’s ever had the pleasure of tripping.

“No problem,” Frank tells her, pretending to be a lot more interested in the file than he is, pretending not to notice when her eyes narrow. He can see it now, that stress-fracture waiting to happen. The glue he’d thought was filling in the crack is nonexistent; Nelson isn’t gonna touch Murdock’s girl, and Page isn’t gonna make a pass at Murdock’s best friend. Frank’s borderline impressed that the three of them have made it this far around realizing they’re even bigger fucking idiots than he thought. “How’s that hole in his side healin’ up?”

“Well, you know, about as well as can be expected.” She’s cool as a sinner in church--one arm folding across her stomach, other hand going to her hair, eyes anywhere but on his. Whatever bullshit Nelson tried about the shirt, she never got within a country mile of thinking he was hurt, and now he’s in for it when she gets back. Murdock’s still awol, Frank’s guessing, or he and Nelson would’ve had this fight and she wouldn’t be finding out from Frank.

Frank doesn’t bother with his better angels and leans into it. “Yeah, that many stitches, it’s no fun.”

A muscle in her jaw jumps, and she tries for a fond smile. It comes out like a rictus. “He’s a trooper.”

“Guess it’s not his first time around the track,” Frank says with a shrug. “When’d he catch that bullet?”

“Uh.” Page tucks a lock of hair behind her ear and sighs. “Reyes. When Reyes got shot, they sort of, ah…”

“Hosed the place down?” Frank suggests. He’d gotten ahold of crime-scene photos, looking for something that rang a bell. They hadn’t been fucking around, when they’d decided to try pinning it on him.

She nods. “If Matt hadn’t heard them, it would have been Reyes, Tower, plus the three of us leaving in body bags.”

“I guess getting clipped a couple of times in that turkey shoot’s not a bad outcome,” Frank agrees. Her brows furrow, and he tilts his head, traces the line of Nelson’s other scar over his own ribs. He knows damn well Nelson got that one somewhere else--it’s a good year older than the hole in his shoulder--but he’d prefer Page not pick up on the fishing expedition he’s on. “Ricochet? Second bullet?”

“Oh, no.” She shakes her head, huffs a tiny ghost of a laugh, and grimaces. “That one was, uh, you were overseas, still. The bomb that went off during the turf-war between Fisk and the Russians? Foggy and I were like, right next door to ground zero, helping a client.” She rubs the back of her neck. “Glass from the window, I think they said it was.”

“Good thing he’s a trooper,” Frank says, pouring himself a cup of coffee. When he looks back, she’s rubbing her chin and looking like she wants to hit something. “You okay, there?”

“Yeah, it’s just been, ah.” She fakes a smile and grabs her bag. “A long week.”

“It’s Monday,” Frank points out.

“Long month, then,” she mutters. “I’m gonna…” 

She gestures toward the door, and he raises his mug, a wordless good-bye. He wouldn’t particularly want to be Nelson, when she catches up with him. Frank’d feel guiltier about it if Red was taking care of business, if Frank actually had to push to get this sort of give, but he’s not and Frank doesn’t. Murdock’s biggest war is with himself, probably always will be. He’s too unstable to be the linchpin of this little enterprise they’ve got going, especially if he can’t even give Nelson and Page the green light to prop each other up when he ain’t around. Hell, Murdock’s already let the vultures pick the bones clean once.

The Bulletin’s at least been good for Page, gives her access to an army of shitheel reporters that might as well be CIs for all the dirt they dig up and pass around, but if the side-gig Nelson landed hadn’t crashed and burned, maybe Murdock really would’ve flushed everything down the toilet the first time he tried. Frank stops and shakes his head when he thinks of that blond snake in high heels that Nelson keeps falling into bed with. How nuts must she be going, losing Nelson over and over again to a guy he’s not even sleeping with? There has to be something there, for her to keep coming back for another round.

Frank thinks about how Nelson’s hair felt, curled around his fingers, how easy Nelson’s mouth opened under his, how goddamned raw he’d been in Frank’s arms. Maybe it’s nothing more complicated than that, Nelson pouring all that need and all that want into being with her instead of being with Murdock and Page. It’d be a hard habit to break, having it all to herself.

When Nelson calls, it’s not entirely unexpected.

“Thanks for ratting me out, buddy,” Nelson says.

“Doing what now?” Frank asks. He wonders if Page just got done with Nelson and he’s looking to take it out on someone else, or if he just got the first sign of the impending fight and intends to drag Frank down with him.

“Don’t play dumb,” Nelson tells him, like Nelson’s got any goddamned room to talk. If the man could dodge bullets like Frank’s seen him dodge the point, Frank would have a lot less to worry about any given day. “It’s not a good look on you.”

“Try this on for size, then,” Frank says evenly, because he can afford to be generous. He’s not the one on the receiving end of one of Page’s verbal beatdowns this time, after all. “I ain’t ever gonna lie to her to cover either of your asses. You don’t want her knowing something, do a better job of hiding it. Or maybe jump the tracks completely and don’t do shit you can’t tell her about. You know, just go wild with it.”

“You, of all people, are gonna bust my balls for not wanting to worry her?” Nelson snaps. “Really?”

“She’s a big girl,” Frank points out. He’s not sure what Nelson’s implying, there. Frank’s attachment to and consideration of Karen Page isn’t unique, so far as Frank can tell. Nelson and Murdock’ve both been ready to throw themselves on a pyre for Page since before she and Frank even met; Frank’s at least got the excuse of owing her more than he can ever pay back to explain some of his dumber moves on her account.

Nelson sighs, and there’s a silence where Frank can hear the mid-town traffic in the background, hear a jackhammer going, hear the normal noise of a normal life. There’s a weight to it Frank doesn’t like and can’t explain why. It’s too normal, like he’s talking to a friend. Like he’s not still finding smears of Nelson’s blood in his van. Like he’s not hoping that Marine Corps hoodie is tucked away in the back of a drawer, buried too deep for Page to dig up without leaving evidence of her snooping, instead of chucked in the first convenient trash can as soon as Frank had dropped him off that morning.

“How’d your case go?” Frank asks.

“Unexpectedly well, all things considered. You know, shitty but survivable.” Nelson sounds angry and tired, but not like he’s clinging to his belief in the system by his fingernails. Frank’s heard those rants, and they usually start with a high-pitched “Wilson fucking _Fisk_?” and revolve around some new appeal or request for clemency. It’s almost cute, Nelson’s perpetual capacity for outrage at the rich and amoral’s ability to buy themselves a verdict they like from the courts. The pause drags on, and Frank waits. “That thing with the Irish.”

“Really?” Frank grunts. Page yelled at Nelson about the Hand, so now Nelson’s gonna yell at him about the Irish.

“Yeah, no--I do _not_ want to know. I’m not representing you anymore. Not my farm, not my pig. But.” Nelson stops, hums to himself, and Frank can see him running his fingers through his hair, making that fucking face of his. “One of the guys who swears blind he’s not affiliated but only ever gets arrested for drunk and disorderly in the company of their legbreakers apparently just ripped off the Dogs of Hell for a half a truck’s worth of military hardware. So, if somebody happened to be in the middle of a one-man war with them, it would probably pay for them to be careful.”

Frank scoffs and rubs his eyes. Good thing he hadn’t been expecting a cakewalk with the Irish, then.

“Little bird tell you that?”

“Eavesdropping pays off sometimes,” Nelson says tartly. “Take care of yourself, Frank.”

“Right back at you, pal,” Frank tells him. Whatever the Irish are planning on throwing at him over the next few weeks, he’s not the one trying to talk fucking ninjas out of stabbing him in an alley.


	6. Chapter 6

Frank lets himself into Nelson’s place and tries to ignore how easy it would be for someone with worse intentions to do the same thing. The window off the fire escape might as well have a welcome mat in front of it, if the condition of the lock’s anything to go by. The catch is worn smooth from people doing the exact self-same thing Frank just did. Probably mostly Red, now that Frank’s thinking about it; he’d lay money on Page having her own key. Murdock’s gotta have one too, but coming in through the front door in a devil suit that still can’t hide the blood has a tendency to rile up the neighbors.

Frank closes the window, flicks the lock back into place, and looks around. It’s a little tidier than the last time he was here, for all the shape he was in to notice it. Cozier, he supposes. Nelson’s spending less time at the blonde’s place--might be they’re on the outs again.

He drops the records he wants Nelson to look at on the kitchen table and runs his fingers over the titles of the cookbooks propped up between the spice rack and the clay pot with fresh basil growing in it. There’s a new one since last time, its spine barely creased and its heel square and crisp. It’s ridiculously domestic, for the three of them--Murdock’s place is the weirdest goddamned mix of antiseptic and aesthetic that Frank’s ever seen, and Page’s still feels like a hotel suite even though she’s lived there for three years. It would make sense for one or both of them to move in with Nelson, in Frank’s opinion, but then maybe there’d be no unringing that bell. Maybe they’re all still fooling themselves into thinking they can walk away from this.

Frank gets himself a beer out of the fridge, cracks it open, and does a quick walk-through just to quiet his nerves. Nelson’s not a neatfreak like Murdock--makes sense, Frank guesses, he’s not a big fan of tripping over shit himself, and he’s not out here trying to echolocate his way through life--or a ghost like Page, but he’s not a slob, either. Bed’s made, dirty laundry’s in the hamper, remote’s on the table next to the sofa. There are coasters on tables, clean dishes dry in the rack, little labels on things guests might get confused by. There’s even a proper bookmark halfway through the library copy of _Just Mercy_ on the nightstand. 

Small wonder Nelson keeps trying to drag Murdock back into the land of the living; the man exists in a way Murdock won’t let himself. It’s not as much an issue with Page, when she’s with Nelson. It comes into focus, a small mystery solved. There’s some block there, some permission that she can’t give herself when she’s not around Nelson. Probably doesn’t help that the last time she gave it a shot she woke up next to a friend’s murdered body; that’s the sort of thing that leaves marks. 

Frank gives in to the impulse to poke through Nelson’s closet and finds the USMC hoodie hung up inside a windbreaker and tucked away behind a few other coats. Not disposed of surreptitiously the day of, then. Not exactly cached away where he’ll never have to look at it again, either. It’s good information to have.

Frank leaves it there when he backtracks to the kitchen. Nelson’s had time to return it, if he was only holding onto it out of obligation. Frank’s not in any hurry to take it off his hands. And who knows? Next time Nelson’s really pissed at Red, maybe it’ll put in an appearance at the office. Frank shouldn’t find himself smiling at the thought, but he can’t help it. Murdock’s moralizing gets under his skin every so often. It might be petty, but it would be nice to think there’s a few ways left to return the favor. 

Frank drapes his jacket over one of the chairs at the table and settles in to wait. The sofa’s more comfortable than he remembers, but then he’s got a lot fewer temporary holes in him this time around. Frank sips his beer and wonders if Nelson was still scrubbing Frank’s blood off things, out of things, a week later. If it bothered him as much as scrubbing Nelson’s blood off things bothered Frank. Probably didn’t hold a candle to scrubbing Red’s blood off things, but then Red’s taken himself out of the game on a few levels. At least in Frank’s case, he hadn’t intended for Nelson to be picking up his slack. So far as Frank can tell, Murdock’s back-up plan is usually a coin toss between Nelson and just plain dying in a gutter.

Frank takes a longer pull off the bottle.

So far as Frank can tell, they’re not currently speaking to each other outside of work. So far as Frank can tell, things haven’t shifted between Nelson and Page, either. It’s not like Murdock’s got anything much to complain about, if Frank makes a move. It’s not like Frank’s gonna listen if he does complain; Murdock’s left too much on the table for too long for Frank to take him seriously if he pitches a fit over someone else snapping it up while he’s not looking.

Frank hears Nelson’s voice in the hall before he hears the keys in the lock, and that’s one thing Frank hadn’t considered--guests. It’s just Nelson talking, though, and there’s a lull every few sentences that makes Frank think he’s on the phone rather than bringing someone home. The door opens, and sure enough, there’s Nelson with his phone jammed between his ear and his shoulder, arms full of groceries, and a deer in the headlights look when he sees Frank.

Frank smirks and holds up his hands. Like it’s his fault Nelson has the security instincts of a frat-rat. Nelson’s wide-eyed startle slides easily into irritation, and he rolls his eyes and shambles through the door.

“Look, Mr. Cage, as _your attorney_ , I’m just pointing out the simple facts of the matter,” Nelson grumbles, kicking the door closed with his heel. 

His satchel’s sliding off his shoulder, and the grocery bags look like they’re about to tear. Frank’s on his feet and taking the groceries out of Nelson’s hands before he thinks about it. Nelson lets him, doesn’t make a thing of it one way or another. 

“You’re in the dog house, legally speaking, for another twenty-four hours,” Nelson continues, not missing a beat. He locks the door, throws his bag down on a chair, and gets a hand on the phone so he can unkink his neck. It’s second nature, doing this. “Jones isn’t. In the event that someone somehow requires a vicious pummeling in self-defense or defense of others or defense of God and country--if you two literally can’t find any way of defusing the situation--it would be less of a headache if Jones was the one doing the pummeling.”

Frank watches him, bemused, and unpacks the food. It’s mostly cans and jars, frozen produce and a few microwave meals. Nelson checks the oven, then turns it on and pulls a baking sheet out of a cupboard.

“I don’t know,” Nelson sighs, “spend the night in a hotel? Jones has a pull-out in her office, doesn’t she?”

Nelson stops, pinches the bridge of his nose, and slowly exhales at whatever answer he’s listening to. It’s nice to know Frank’s not the only one who gets that face.

“Well I guess if it got firebombed, no one would expect to find you two camped out there, so let’s go ahead and put that in the maybe pile, okay?” Nelson manages after a few seconds. “It’s just for one night! That’s all I’m asking. We’ll get this all taken care of tomorrow, and then you can go back to decking assholes to your heart’s content.” 

Frank raises his eyebrows, and Nelson blinks once what he just said registers. 

“I mean, please don’t do that, but you, uh, you know. Could.” He covers the microphone and hisses, “Shit.”

“Time to hang up, Phoenix Wright,” Frank chuckles. Nelson takes his hand off the mic to flip Frank off.

“Just stay out of trouble for tonight, okay? I don’t care how, just lay low, I’ll pick you up tomorrow, and we’ll get this straightened out.” Nelson shoves his hair out of his face. “Be careful, sleep well, see you in the morning. Love you.”

He hangs up and pulls a pepperoni pizza out of the freezer. He’s got the box ripped open and the plastic halfway off before the penny drops.

Frank rubs his chin and tries not to look like too much of an asshole when Nelson stops cold and asks, “Did I just say ‘love you’ to a client?”

“Dunno. Was that a client you were just asking not to break anyone’s legs?” Frank asks mildly.

“Fuck. Hogarth’s going to kill me.” Nelson shakes his head, then apparently figures he might as well make the most of the night and starts moving again. He glances at Frank. “You’re not a vegetarian, are you?”

“You kidding me?” Frank asks.

Nelson glares at him. “Whatever, Rambo. People are allowed to have preferences without being a thousand percent observant. I’ve got plain cheese if you--”

“Meat’s fine,” Frank says, helping himself to another beer. He grabs one for Nelson, too, then watches him down a third of it in one go. The frozen pizza gets dolled up with handfuls of whatever’s in the fridge that strikes Nelson’s fancy, then shoved into the oven with more force than is strictly necessary. There’s no spare room in the tiny kitchen, and Frank can feel something like electricity sparking in the closeness. Nelson’s rattled, jittery.

“I wasn’t asking my client not to break anyone’s legs,” he says, finally, leaning back against the counter and shooting Frank a glare that’s half challenge, half dare. “He’s… a lot like Matt.”

“Sounds like a new felony charge or two’s the least of his concerns, then,” Frank points out, raising his bottle.

“Okay, he’s like Matt, if Matt had a responsible bone in his body,” Nelson snorts. There’s a smile creeping back onto his face, though, and Frank watches it spread.

“So tomorrow’s getting an overdue parking ticket paid, then?” Frank asks.

“Attorney-client privilege still exists,” Nelson tells him, pointing like he just caught Frank trying to pull a fast one. “But basically I just have to show up and say ‘This is bullshit, your honor,’ and then the judge reviews the paperwork, agrees that it’s bullshit, and we’re done.”

“You guys really earn your hundred bucks an hour, don’t you?”

“I’m earning it a hell of a lot more than the guy who fucked up the paperwork in the first place earned his,” Nelson says. “Also, please tell me you’re not here because somebody firebombed your safehouse.”

“If somebody firebombed my safehouse, I’d be at their place,” Frank reminds him.

Nelson’s brows scrunch, and he presses the bottle against his forehead. “I’m just going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

“Suit yourself,” Frank says. He tilts his head at the thick folder on the table. “I find myself suddenly very interested in who really owns a particular patch of Brooklyn.”

“Oh, joy,” Nelson sighs, making a face. “Property records.”

“That your way of saying you ain’t got the chops?” Frank asks, crossing his arms and cocking his head. Nelson shoots him a withering look.

“It’s my way of saying you’re drinking my beer, breaking into my place, and asking for my least favorite favor,” he says. “You could’ve at least made an effort to sweeten the pot, Castle.”

Frank shrugs and tries to keep his smile wry. The records are deliberately obscure, the actual owners hiding behind banks, shell companies, and proxies. He could probably figure it out for himself, given the time. He doesn’t really have it to burn, though, and it’s as good an excuse to be here as any. Nelson flips through the folder and frowns to himself, then goes back over a few specific pages more slowly.

The pizza’s done during all that, and Nelson pulls it out of the oven and cuts it around scrutinizing one entry with the intensity Frank usually brings to the business end of a scope.

“Why, exactly, are you looking into this?” Nelson asks, handing Frank a plate.

“Weren’t you just griping about accessory before the fact not too long ago?” Frank retorts. The pie doesn’t look all that bad, considering its humble beginnings, and Nelson’s answering glower is half-assed; he’s already too interested in the records to object too much.

They end up at the table in spite of Nelson’s best efforts to scatter the file’s contents all over the kitchen while he eats over a napkin. Frank imagines the scene playing out in a hospital storage closet, Nelson spitballing strategies and exclusions with Page to try and keep a needle out of Frank’s arm. It’s uncomfortable, and he pushes it away in favor of the narrow concentration on Nelson’s face now. When Frank gets up to put his plate in the sink, he leans across the back of Nelson’s chair instead of sitting back down in his own, reads over Nelson’s shoulder, lets one hand rest on Nelson’s back.

Nelson goes stiff as a board under his hand, and Frank hopes he hasn’t miscalculated. Nelson didn’t call after that night when Frank stitched him up, but Nelson and Frank’ve both had the sort of shit going on where two-am texts looking to get laid wouldn’t have been well received.

Nelson clears his throat and doesn’t look up. “I was kidding. Earlier. You don’t need to--I’m going to help, if I can, it doesn’t matter if…” His cheeks are pink, and one hand tucks a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “It was a shitty joke. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Frank rubs his thumb over Nelson’s spine, and he’s rewarded with Nelson’s quickly-smothered gasp. He leans closer, keeping his posture easy and his movements casual. He doesn’t want to blow this, doesn’t want Nelson to bolt on him or throw him out. “Might be I’ve been looking for an excuse.”

Nelson does look up at that, locks eyes with Frank like he’s looking for something--an ulterior motive, maybe, or some hint that Frank’s just screwing with him. He licks his lips, and Frank wants to haul him out of that chair, kiss him hard, grab a fistful of that blond hair. 

It hits him like a shockwave, catches him by surprise, how much he wants it. This was supposed to be a thing of convenience, utilitarian, easy. No civilians involved, low-risk and low-reward. Instead some vestigial altar-boy reflex buried under decades of blood and disillusionment is bargaining with the universe to let him have this. It’s dumb--that’s not how things work, and Frank’s known it for too long to get stupid about it now--but there it is. 

Whatever Nelson’s looking for, afraid of finding, all he sees is that want. He pushes up, meets Frank halfway, and kisses him gently. Nelson’s hands settle on Frank’s waist, the touch light but insistent, like he doesn’t want to get too pushy right off the bat. It’s the one place Frank can think of where Nelson doesn’t just go for whatever the hell he wants, doesn’t scramble for as much as he can get in whatever time he’s got left. It’s a little endearing, that hesitation, but Frank could use a lot less of it right now. He buries one hand in Nelson’s hair, wraps the other arm around Nelson’s back, and kisses him like he means it.

Nelson arches against him, hands sliding up Frank’s back and mouth opening under Frank’s. It’s soft and comfortable in a way Frank had almost forgotten could exist, all the sharp edges rounded off, and he mouths at Nelson’s throat just to hear the noise Frank knows he’ll make.

Frank pushes Nelson back so he’s half-sitting on the table, crowds in between his legs, pulls him against his chest. Nelson lets him, clutches Frank to him whenever Frank leans too far back, kisses him hungrily. Frank loses track of time, can’t bring himself to care if they’ve been making out like this--rough, sloppy, like high school kids finally getting some privacy instead of two grown men who can do whatever the hell they want--for five minutes or five hours. Nelson’s hands are under Frank’s shirt now, soft fingertips running over his ribs, tracing his spine, digging into the small of his back when he bites the lobe of Nelson’s ear. Frank’s cock is hard, insistent against the fly of his jeans, and he wants to tear Nelson’s clothes off.

When Nelson pulls Frank’s shirt up, off, over his head, Frank takes it as a green light. Not a repeat of last time--he knows better, maybe if this turns regular he can get away with it at some point, but Nelson’s not a big fan of reminders that Frank’s a blunt-force instrument--but a careful, steady unbuttoning while Nelson’s distracted by Frank’s suddenly bare torso. Nelson’s pretty damn distracting himself, and Frank pauses on the last button when Nelson dips his head and sucks a bruise into Frank’s neck. Frank twists the cloth in his hands, his cock throbbing.

The table--a flimsy prefab thing Nelson probably got with the apartment--won’t hold them both. Frank’s spent enough time on that couch to know it’ll be awkward at best, for what he’s got in mind. The bed’s his best bet, but he doesn’t want Nelson getting gunshy on him, doesn’t want to push his luck by suggesting it, doesn’t want Nelson thinking he’s making assumptions about where this is going.

Frank slides the shirt over Nelson’s shoulders, runs his hands down Nelson’s arms, then grabs him by the hips and jerks him up against Frank, hard. He nudges Nelson’s mouth open again, kisses him with one hand in his hair and the other scratching down his spine, fingernails running over the thin cotton of his A-shirt. When Frank’s hand hits Nelson’s belt, he follows the leather around to the buckle, undoes it without letting up, cups Nelson gently through his slacks.

The effect is immediate, Nelson bucking against him and groaning into Frank’s mouth, hands tightening on Frank’s ass. Frank sucks at Nelson’s tongue and tugs his fly open, slides his hand over the damp silk of the boxers clinging to Nelson’s skin. Nelson’s cock is short but thick, a perfect handful, and Frank runs his fingers over it for a second before going lower, cradling Nelson’s balls against his palm.

Nelson’s clinging to him hard enough to leave marks now, and Frank turns his head, starts kissing his way down Nelson’s throat as he strokes up, runs his thumb over the edge of Nelson’s glans. Uncut, it feels like through the silk, and Frank’s never minded much one way or another but then again he’s never been with a guy he’s wanted to wring out quite like he does Nelson.

Nelson groans against Frank’s shoulder, half gone already. “Do you want to…?”

He nods toward the bedroom, diffident, like he’s thinking Frank might suddenly decide he’s straight or something. Maybe that’s how it went with Murdock, some drunken experimentation that was moving along just fine until he got feeling too good and the guilt kicked in. Frank pulls Nelson close and kisses him again, just to make it clear where he stands on that.

“Yeah,” Frank says, rumbles, right in Nelson’s ear.

Disengaging is harder than it should be, letting go enough that they can get there without tripping each other in the process. Frank’s surprised by how much he doesn’t want to, by how easy it is to stop midway and pull Nelson into another thirty seconds of rough groping. Usually once there’s an objective, it’s simpler for him to practice some goddamned restraint. He’s ten feet away from having Nelson stripped naked and screaming his name, and he’s getting distracted by Nelson’s lips.

Once they’re finally there, Nelson kicks off his shoes and pulls off the undershirt, and Frank can’t help but stare at the scar on his belly. It’s raw and red and angry, sure, but it’ll fade out in a year or so. Frank’s glad he took the time with the extra stitches, glad it’s not worse than it is, glad he’s not looking at his own botched work. The attention turns Nelson shy, though, and he crosses an arm over the mark and flushes. Frank doesn’t bother cajoling him, not while he’s still dressed himself.

Frank knows how he looks, knows it’s not his brains that make people who should know better sit up and take notice. He pulls off his boots, then straightens up, smirks and rests his thumbs on the edge of his belt, fingers on the buckle. He takes his time with it, lets Nelson watch him work, lets him see how hard Frank is for him when Frank unzips his fly, eases his jeans down over his hips. Nelson’s arm falls to his side, fingers curling against his palm like he wants to touch, eyes dark and focused on Frank.

Frank steps out of his jeans and arches his eyebrows. “Like what you see, gorgeous?”

Nelson blushes, his face going hot, and he looks away like Frank’s caught him out in something, that tongue of his flicking over his lips.

“Come here, huh?” Frank says, raising his hands and twitching his fingers toward himself. Like Nelson needs it spelled out for him. Maybe he does, Frank thinks. Maybe it’s been a while since he’s done this. Maybe he’s been too hung up on Red to get with another guy. “Can’t do nothing with you all the way over there.” 

Nelson gives a short laugh, like he’s just realized he’s still standing there in too many clothes, and he finally loses the pants. “Trust me, you’re doing plenty.”

When he crosses the room to Frank, it’s hard to hold still, to not meet him halfway. He looks comfortable, like he’d feel good in Frank’s hands. Frank pulls him into a tight embrace, kisses him, lets his hands wander over bare skin. Nelson shivers against him, tentatively traces the veins of Frank’s cock with his fingertips. Frank wants to rut against him just from that, wants to feel the drag of skin against skin. Instead Nelson wriggles out of his arms and slides to his knees, and Frank’s first instinct is to stop him.

Nelson blinks up at him, confused, and Frank can’t really blame him, there. He’s usually not so fucking self-sabotaging that his first thought on getting a blowjob is how to tap the brakes. Frank reaches down and runs his fingers through Nelson’s hair. 

“Take your time, beautiful,” he murmurs, “I’m not going anywhere.”

The corner of Nelson’s mouth tugs up, a smile he doesn’t quite want to show. It’s too sweet, too sincere, and Frank wants to see it at the same time he gets why Nelson would rather keep a lid on it. They’re not friends, barely comrades. There’s only so intimate this is gonna get, so vulnerable either one of them can be in case it comes back on them later.

“You sure your safehouse didn’t get firebombed?” Nelson asks, rolling his eyes. 

“Brat.” Frank smirks, then runs the head of his cock over his lips. Nelson opens immediately, wraps his hands around Frank’s hips and leans forward, sucking Frank’s length into his mouth, his tongue flat and hot and wet against the underside of Frank’s cock. “Jesus _fuck_.”

It’s a goddamned sin, what Nelson can do with that mouth of his. Frank can’t remember the last time he had to keep such a close watch on the dumb animal part of his brain that just wants to thrust until he comes, wants to dig his fingers in and growl _“Mine.”_ and never let go, wants to mark his territory and fight anyone that thinks of crossing it. Nelson’s not helping, the way he responds to Frank’s fingers tightening in his hair by taking Frank even deeper, sucking harder, making a map of Frank’s cock with the tip of his tongue. Frank wants to last long enough he doesn’t embarrass himself this first time out of the gate, but those blue eyes looking up at him while he slides down Nelson’s throat would be enough to make a saint come. 

Nelson rolls Frank’s balls between his fingers, tests the weight of them, runs a teasing pair of fingers over the sweet spot right behind them, then pulls off enough that he can focus on the glans. He wraps his other hand around the base of Frank’s cock, pumping casually while Frank tries not to having a fucking aneurysm from that tongue of his. It’s like Nelson knows full well what Frank’s trying to do and is bound and determined not to let him have that high ground.

“I’m gonna come, you keep this up,” Frank manages, trying to relax the over-tight hold he’s got on the back of Nelson’s head.

Nelson shrugs and doesn’t let up in the slightest, hums some nonchalant noise of an answer that Frank can feel all the way up his spine. Frank holds out for another minute, at best, and then he’s climaxing, spilling against Nelson’s tongue, all that raw energy coiling up inside him like an overwound spring and nowhere to go like he didn’t just come his fucking brains out. Nelson sits back on his heels, swallows, and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, smug like he knows damn well how good he is. 

Frank doesn’t think about it, just pulls him to his feet and shoves him down on the bed, climbs on top of him and starts kissing him. Nelson’s cock fits perfectly in his hand, just like he knew it would. Frank barely softened when he came, barely had a chance when he watched Nelson swallow and smirk at him, still on his knees. The soft, breathy moans Nelson’s making now have him ready to go again in seconds, never mind the way Nelson’s squirming under him, fingers digging into Frank’s back, shoulder, hip, Nelson arching up, thrusting against him, thigh sliding up along Frank’s hip, heel following the curve of Frank’s thigh.

Frank wants to roll him over, shove his cock between Nelson’s thighs, feel Nelson’s whole body tighten against him when he jerks him off, makes him come. Frank doesn’t want to move from where he is, holding Nelson down while Nelson twines up and around him, twisting and writhing as Frank runs his thumb along his slit before pumping in earnest again. Frank can’t keep his free hand out of Nelson’s hair, but he kisses his way down Nelson’s chest, circles one of Nelson’s nipples with his tongue, then his teeth. That gets an even response bigger than what he hoped for, and Nelson’s fingernails sink into Frank’s back. When he does it again, Nelson comes against him, spurting onto Frank’s belly in hot white waves.

Nelson protests when Frank peels himself off of him, trying to pull Frank back down. 

Frank snorts and nips at his throat. “What’re you, cold?”

Nelson glares at him, irritation briefly cutting through the afterglow until it registers that Frank’s going for the nightstand.

“Kleenex is in the bathroom,” he says, yawning.

“I was looking for the condoms,” Frank tells him. He’s got some tucked away in his jacket, just in case, but he figures Nelson might be more inclined to use his own.

“I, ah…” Nelson glances at the nightstand. “Don’t really…”

“Have any?” Frank asks. There’s more there, but Nelson’s not making it easy to connect the dots.

“Do anal,” he mumbles, quick and quiet.

Frank doesn’t for a second believe him--there are a million caveats there, hiding in that shamefaced tone, an ‘on the first date’ or ‘with guys your size’ or ‘unless I really trust a guy’ or any number of other conditions Frank hasn’t met yet.

Frank kisses his mouth open, lets Nelson feel how hard he still is. “Plenty of other moves to make, beautiful.”

Frank tugs open the drawer, roots around until he finds the lube, and slots himself against Nelson’s back. He lets his hands stray over Nelson’s skin, lets himself get lost in how goddamned soft Nelson is in his arms, gives in to temptation and sinks his teeth into the nape of Nelson’s neck, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to make Nelson shiver and arch against him. 

Once Nelson seems more interested than just content--once Nelson’s cock starts to thicken again, once his breath is coming faster, once he starts pressing back against Frank’s chest instead of just resting there--Frank slicks himself up and slides between Nelson’s thighs. Nelson hitches a breath when Frank’s cock brushes against his balls, and Frank presses a kiss to his shoulder.

“Good? Not good?” he asks.

“Good,” Nelson purrs.

Frank ruts against him easily, buries his face in Nelson’s throat, wraps his arm around Nelson’s stomach. It’s the sort of good he doesn’t want to end instead of the sort of good he just wants to survive, especially when Nelson presses his knees together to give Frank more friction, scratches at Frank’s hip, Frank’s arm, whenever Frank’s cock catches him right. It’s something when Nelson’s hand drifts lower, to his own cock.

“Come on, baby, let me see,” Frank growls, his lips brushing Nelson’s jaw. “Show me how you like it.”

Not like Nelson’s ever needed his permission--needed anybody’s permission, when it gets down to it--but Nelson still huffs a laugh, relaxes against him, starts working himself with slow, even strokes. Frank matches the pace, speeds up when he does, holds him tighter when he squirms. Frank doesn’t have a great angle on it; Nelson’s bed’s barely big enough for the two of them, and the way they’re wound around each other means Frank can barely see Nelson’s hand moving on his cock. He can feel every twitch and shiver running through Nelson’s body, though, hear the way his breath quickens, hitches, stutters.

The open-mouthed moan Nelson doesn’t bother trying to stifle makes Frank’s blood race, but it’s the quick, sharp, “Oh _fuck_.” that does it, shoves him right over the edge, his whole body shuddering against Nelson’s, curling around Nelson’s, following as Nelson twists in his arms.

Nelson’s panting and dazed when Frank comes back to himself, all that live-wire need finally spent and running down Nelson’s legs. There’s some animal satisfaction to be had there, from seeing his come sliding down Nelson’s skin, but Frank’s wary of it, sure nothing good’s gonna come of thinking this is anything more than the quick fuck they both needed. 

Once Frank’s gone, Nelson will take a shower, change the sheets, and douse himself in some godawful cologne so Murdock can’t smell Frank on him. Murdock’s not so goddamned dumb that he’ll get on Nelson’s case about it, not after the blood-thirsty harpy he spent a good year and a half chasing after while everything else went to hell in a handbasket. Murdock’s not so goddamned dumb that he’ll make it easy for Frank to pick Nelson off like that.

Frank can come on him, in him, for him as many times as he wants--it’s not going to change anything. The go-round with Page taught him that much, and he’s too old to think with his balls.

Frank combs his fingers through Nelson’s hair, smoothing down what he spent the better part of the last hour mussing. He sucks gently at Nelson’s shoulder, and Nelson closes his eyes and relaxes against him. Frank should see himself out, but Nelson doesn’t seem to be in too much of a hurry to get rid of him. He’s not liable to get this kind of chance again, so he settles in, makes the most of it. When Nelson falls asleep, Frank doesn’t wake him.

* * *

When Frank wakes, it’s to an empty bed. He blinks in the bright sunlight coming through the window, looks around the bedroom like it’s the inside of a spaceship. It might as well be, as disoriented as he feels. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, can’t remember the last time someone getting out of bed didn’t wake him up.

There’s a note on the table, telling Frank there’s breakfast burritos in the freezer and that the coffeemaker’s ready to go. It doesn’t say not to make himself at home, so Frank starts the pot of coffee and helps himself to the hottest shower he can stand until the water turns tepid. Getting a squat with running water’s usually not too difficult, if he’s had time to scout the location, but hot water? Not worth it, most of the time. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t miss it.

It’s an impulse he can’t quite account for that sends him rifling through Nelson’s dresser. He doesn’t need anything; yesterday’s clothes are clean enough nobody’ll be side-eyeing him on the subway. He stops, hesitates for a second when he finds a shirt that might fit him. It’s worn, faded, something Nelson keeps to sleep or bum around the apartment in. Frank pulls it on, runs his fingers over the half-legible ‘I heart NY.’ The fit’s not bad, and it could be anyone’s--Frank’s, even, some dumbshit gift sent in a care package back when he had a home, to remind him of it. There’s plausible deniability, no risk of being seen in it. Even Red wouldn’t bat an eye, once Frank’s had it a little while.

He shrugs into his jacket, grabs one of the burritos the note mentioned, throws it in the microwave. He eats it while he reads the half-page of neat, even handwriting on yellow legal paper detailing exactly what the property records Frank brought with him last night mean. He runs out of excuses to loiter, after that. Frank can’t help but picture Nelson on his knees, and it sends a thrill through him that leaves him half-hard and wanting. He shakes it off--Nelson’s not gonna be back anytime soon, not if he’s trying to get some new vigilante off the hook. The thought makes Frank bristle. Like Nelson’s fucking collecting them, now. 

Then again, it’s a vigilante like Murdock, if Murdock ‘had a responsible bone in his body.’ There’d been resignation there, bitterness like when Nelson had said Murdock was straight, not interested. Whatever the world’s taken from Murdock, it keeps trying to give it back with interest, and somehow it’s not getting through his thick skull.

Frank might not be the brightest bulb in the box, but he knows enough to take his chances when they come. 

Frank cleans up after himself as best he can--there’s no doing anything with the bed, not with the mess they made of it last night--and finishes up by leaving his shirt from yesterday in with Nelson’s laundry. It’s not exactly planting evidence. More like giving Nelson an excuse to call, to drop by, if he wants one. Maybe remind Page that there are guys out there who can get it up without a half-hour speech on the nature of good and evil. Maybe put Murdock on notice that he’s not the only game in town, that at least Frank won’t lie about who he is, what he does, won’t string people along when he should be protecting them as best he can.

Not a great plan, but who knows? If Nelson didn’t prod him awake last night, didn’t kick him out this morning, could be Nelson’s not averse to making this regular either. Could be Nelson’s looking for more out of life than Catholic guilt and self-denial, can’t see a whole lot of light between what Frank does and what Murdock does anymore, will take what he can get. Could be Frank’s got more cards to play than he thought.

Frank rolls up the files, the notes, doesn’t think twice about grabbing the invitation to stay for breakfast and tucking that away with everything else. He hasn’t been too proud for scraps in a long time, and this is proof positive, if he ever needs it, that he’s got a shot, that his warm bed is just as good as anyone else’s. 

Frank shoves everything into his jacket and leaves by the front door.


End file.
